


Whitecaps

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon Gay Character, Catholic Guilt, Codependency, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Instability, Moving In Together, Past Abuse, Season/Series 13, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: "You wanna brawl and crawl back into bed, but I can't move at all; I'm stalled and in my head. I'm out here playin' dead. We are not fit to duel. Our parents gave us different pistols, taught us different rules. Your father was cruel. This man you resent is despite your best intentions what I represent. I say it isn't right. You say you're always right. Be prepared to fight."





	Whitecaps

**Author's Note:**

> "It's sick, the way we fight and spit. Somehow we find each other even when we're trying to quit. 'Cause right behind our shit, we like each other quite a bit. But I might admit, it's pitiful the way the line was split. A hundred thousand years, and we're still trying to find the clit. But we don't have an ending, yet we get to write the script. It isn't gonna do to move our lips."

“Dude, oh my god, just stop chugging slushies!”

Charlie glances up from the two Sonic cups in front of him, a straw in each side of his mouth. His tongue’s stained blue and purple. “I can’t help it, man! They’re addicting!”

Mac rolls his eyes. “I will jam my thumb in your eye if you get another brain freeze –” Just as those words leave his mouth, Charlie scrunches up his face. “Goddammit! That’s it! You’re officially cut off from Sonic!”

He yanks the Styrofoam cups away from Charlie, quickly throwing them in the trash. He turns back around to find the straws still in Charlie’s mouth, but his friend’s eyes are wide, and he looks like he may try to kill Mac. He isn’t worried, though. Charlie’s got a wicked meanie-weanie face, but Mac’s, like, super strong and buff and could karate chop his throat in half. But Charlie’s been on this Sonic kick ever since Frank won a $500 gift card after rigging the system. Charlie only goes during happy hour, so he gets these stupid Goddamn slushies half-price. He comes back to the bar and spikes them with whatever alcohol he can find. He’s trashed by six.

“You can’t do that!” Charlie screeches. “Fine, y’know, whatever. I’ll just get them outta the trash.”

Charlie makes his move, darting out from behind the bar and dashing to the trashcan. Son of a bitch. Mac becomes a human shield because, Jesus Christ, does this dude have a mad obsession with eating things from the trash, finding buried treasure in the trash, and going scuba diving in the trash. Maybe they should just put their daily garbage in a Walmart baggy or something. If the trashcans are missing, Charlie can’t pull this shit.

“Stay back, you little bitch!” Mac shouts, shoving Charlie in the chest.

Charlie fights back. The dude’s scrappy; Mac’ll give him that. “You’re just mad ‘cuz Frank gave me the gift card and not you!”

“I don’t give a shit about the gift card!” Mac screams. He puts his hands on his hips and does his stance, but Charlie ultimately does the same thing, sizing Mac up with crazy, unforgiving eyes. It's almost intimidating, but who is he kidding? Mac’s jack ripped so tearing Charlie in half sounds pretty good right now. “Quit standing like me. I will punt you through –”

“Heyoooo! What’s up bitches!” Dee announces, entering the bar with baggies of food in her clutches. “Mama’s got some pizza pop!”

Mac and Charlie immediately stop squabbling, which is a good thing because Mac isn’t sure how much longer he can control the rage bubbling inside of him like a shaken soda. Charlie’s just so Goddamn irritating. He's been irritating him all day long. But, luckily for his best bud, Dee is way more annoying. “We were talking, you Goddamn bitch!” Mac exclaims with irritation.

“Yeah!” Charlie agrees. “You can’t just insert yourself into our conversation whenever you – Wait. Did you say ‘pizza pop?’”

“I most certainly did. Not that any of you boners get any. It’s just for me,” Dee says. She sets her purse down on the bar counter, and Mac really thinks more harder about strangling someone today, but it’s, like, two AM, and he’s tired. He’d rather go home and pretend Dennis isn’t there while Dennis pretends to sleep in the next room.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “You can’t eat all that pizza pop yourself!”

“I can, and I will.”

Mac snaps back into reality, one that isn’t dictated by Dennis and Dennis’ stupidity. “What the fuck is ‘pizza pop?’”

“Oh, it’s a clever combination of ‘pizza’ and ‘soda,” Dee says.

“Huh?” Mac asks.

“Okay. I got this one,” Charlie says. “It’s like this. So whenever a Mommy Pizza and a Daddy Soda make love, or have sex as the big people call it, there’s this green goo that comes outta their buttcracks, and it has the power to –”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dee shrieks. Mac almost plugs his ears because it’s shrill and irritating and completely unnecessary, even if he has no idea where Charlie’s going with this one. “I brought pizza and soda. That’s literally it.”

Charlie’s eyebrows furrow. “Thanks for rudely interrupting me, Dee,” he says. “Guess I was just thinkin’ about something different.”

“What could you have possibly been thinking about?” Mac questions.

His buddy shrugs. “Ghouls, I think.”

“You think?”

Mac shakes his head, stumbling slightly to the front entrance of Paddy’s and shrugging on his leather jacket. It barely fits now because he’s gained so much mass, like more mass than he’s ever gained before. It’s nice. He’s strong. Probably the strongest dude ever. But even the strongest dude ever can’t handle this conversation anymore. He wants to go home. He wants to get away from whatever this is. He wants to see if Dennis is alive and breathing because the dude’s been weird as shit since he got back from North Dakota. Mac isn’t gonna push it, though, because Dennis doesn’t want him anymore.

He goes home to their apartment, the one he painstakingly designed to be the same as it was before. Only nothing is like it was. It doesn’t comfort him or reassure him at all. If anything, everything is brokenly different. He unlocks the door, tiptoeing in quietly, even though he knows there’s no reason to. Dennis doesn’t sit out in the living room anymore. He’s independent and shields himself away in the privacy of his bed.

Tears swell in Mac’s eyes, but he’s tough. He’s strong. He can handle it. He’s been through worse before, like his dad going to prison or Charlie dropping that poop balloon on him ‘accidentally’ in the seventh grade. Or when his dad caught him jacking off to gay porn and broke his hand for being an abomination. Mac shrugs those feelings away.

It doesn’t stop him from carefully peaking into Dennis’ room. It’s pitch black and smells like cinnamon. He can sorta see the outline of Dennis’ body on the mattress, but he can’t tell if he’s sleeping. At least he’s breathing. At least he’s alive.

Mac collapses onto his brand new mattress. He wishes he and Dennis could’ve just shared still. He didn’t see any reason to get a second bed before because they were so used to sleeping together, but now it’s different, and nothing is right. He puts his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling and thinks of everything. He doesn’t fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

_1993_

“What’re you doing over winter break?” Dennis questions, shouldering his expensive as shit backpack because that’s just how Dennis Reynolds rolls. It’s annoying. Dennis is annoying, but Mac hangs out with him regardless. There’s something about him that’s intoxicating, just like the alcohol they steal and sneak. The backpack is pretty cool, and it dangles off Dennis’ form perfectly, but don’t tell Dennis he thinks that.

Mac’s eyes wander, only feeling slightly self-conscious as douchebags and assholes shove past them post. A massive fucking dick accidentally nudges Dennis’ elbow, and Dennis hisses loudly. Mac immediately gets hot. His brain almost explodes.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” Mac shouts. Ever since Dennis broke his arm in three places last week, Mac’s been even more protective of him, especially after the panic attack that caused the accident. “I dunno,” Mac answers, lighting a blunt for the walk home. He stops, cupping his hands around it so the fierce winter air doesn’t blow it out. Mac takes a puff, head hanging low and staring at the icy ground as he strolls beside Dennis.

“Well, what’re you doing right now?” Dennis asks, his voice sounding hopeful. Mac glances over at him. Dennis’ cheeks are red from the wind. A cigarette hangs from his pink lips. His right coat sleeve is empty, clearly missing his arm. Because his arm’s strapped to his chest, encased in a blue cast from fingers to shoulders. Dennis jokes that he’ll set off security alarms at airports for the rest of his life, but it isn’t funny to Mac. Not even in the slightest.

Mac shakes his head, frowning and biting his bottom lip. “Um… nothing?”

“Great,” Dennis says. “I’m coming over.”

Mac stops him right there. “Why? We never hang out at my place.”

Dennis shrugs. “Exactly. We always go to my house. You eat all my shit and play my games and drink my beer and sleep in my bed, so now I’m gonna do the same thing to you.”

“Whatever, dude. But don’t complain when you see it. Not everyone’s rich as shit like you.”

Dennis rolls his eyes, and Mac keeps walking; Dennis follows. Mac’s house is further from school than Dennis’, which always leads to super fun walks in the snow, heat, wind, and rain. Usually, Dennis drives him in his own car or his dad’s car, but Dee is threatening to tell their parents about the accident, so now they walk everywhere they need to go. It isn’t fun, but it’s better than getting in a vehicle where Dennis is behind the wheel, tears streaming down his cheeks and screaming at nothing and no one. It’s better than running off the road into a ditch at 60 miles per hour. They could’ve died. Mac could’ve died. Dennis could’ve died.

Mac shrugs off his leather jacket after he unlocks the door, hanging it on a hook and toing off his snowy boots.

“It smells amazing in here, dude,” Dennis says as he sniffs the air while struggling to remove his coat; Mac does it for him. “Cinnamon and cloves?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what it is,” Mac mumbles. “Take your shoes off, bro.”

“I don’t make you do that at my house.”

Mac shrugs. “Tough shit. My house. My rules.”

Dennis scowls as he kicks them off, not bothering with untying the laces. He’s stiff and rigid, and Mac knows he hurt his a few ribs in the accident because Mac did too. There’s heavy bruising around Dennis’ hips and ribcage, and Mac’s still got the remains of two black eyes. Mac broke his nose when his face slammed into the deployed airbag. It’s a mess. They’re a mess.

Okay. Stop. Quit thinking about it.

“Jesus, it’s spotless in here,” Dennis says, clearing his throat and roaming around the living room like he owns the place. The TV screen has a crack in the upper right hand corner. The walls are coated with thick, messy layers of paint to combat against the peeling. It is absolute trash compared to Dennis’ mansion. Mac likes it there more better. Dennis’ sheets are soft and smell like baby powder. Dennis has endless amounts of thick, fuzzy blankets. “I like it.”

“It’s gross, Den,” Mac replies hastily, plopping down on the sofa. Dennis sits until he’s shoulder to shoulder with him. Dennis scratches his neck, right where Mac can see the sling’s been rubbing it raw, and he doesn’t stop until Mac coaxes his arm free from the horrible contraption. “Stop it. That’s gotta hurt.” Dennis mumbles and fusses, but he stops once Mac places a pillow between his arm and stomach for padding.

They spend the rest of the afternoon watching TV and lighting up joint after joint while guzzling a case of cheap ass beer. Dennis sprawls out on the couch, his socked feet nestled in Mac’s lap. Mac relaxes and tries not to think too much about this – whatever this is. He doesn’t know what he and Dennis are exactly, but they’re only seventeen, so he guesses it’s alright to be unsure. They’re just starting to figure shit out in the first place.

“I’m gonna go crash, man,” Mac murmurs at 2:30 AM.

Dennis yawns and nods. He makes no effort to move.

“You can’t sleep out here. My mom’ll be back around six.”

Dennis whines. “I’m tired…”

Mac eventually coaxes Dennis to his feet with the promise of hot chocolate when they wake up. He guides Dennis to his tiny bedroom, where there’s just a full-sized bed, karate posters, and his extensive CD collection. Dennis settles on the mattress; there aren’t any sheets, and Mac almost hides his eyes because, fuck, is this embarrassing. Dennis doesn’t mention anything, and Mac is thankful for that. He climbs under the covers, and Dennis instantly clings to him.

It’s quiet for a few moments. Dennis rolls over until he’s on his side, not exactly being mindful of his barely mended together arm. Mac wants to lecture him, but he clams up once Dennis scoots until their foreheads touch.

“Is this okay?” Dennis asks, voice sweet on this cold December night.

He’s flush against Mac; Mac nods in the darkness.

Maybe Dennis presses his lips against Mac’s.

Maybe Mac doesn’t pull away.

Maybe, just maybe, they hardcore make out until the sun rises.

There’s this spark of electricity, of pure, raw, unaltered energy Mac feels for the first time in his life. Fuck, Dennis is a great kisser. Like the dude has some killer moves. Dennis cards his fingers through Mac’s hair. Mac bites Dennis’ lip. Mac isn’t even sure how this is possible. Is he dreaming? Is this real? He’s wanted this for so long. So so long.

Mac tries not to blush when Dennis plants several kisses in his hair.

It’s new. It’s amazing. It’s nearly indescribable.

Mac falls asleep, roasting like a bundle of logs in Dennis’ engulfing, consuming flames.

 

* * *

 

‘Hollaback Girl’ fills up the silence raining down in Mac’s brain. He dances, glitter coating his body and nips blasting through his mesh shirt, which is totally sweet, by the way. But his heart feels sad. He’s been grinding up on beefcakes and even a few jabronis. He should be happy. But Gwen Stefani’s voice only makes the sadness worse. The Rainbow isn’t even that fun tonight, and it makes Mac hurt even more.

Mac stalks over the bathroom, away from the thumping music. He stares at himself in the mirror while two dudes snort blow and two other dudes dry hump each other in the corner. It isn’t ideal. None of this is. But Mac stares at himself anyway. No amount of alcohol or weed or uppers or downers or glue can fill up this hole growing in his chest. He thinks he misses Dennis, but then he stops thinking that because fuck Dennis.

He hasn’t called. He hasn’t checked in. Why would he?

Ever since Dennis called Mac out on touching him too much, about asserting himself on to Dennis, about this – whatever it is – never happening, they haven’t really been talking. They do sometimes at the bar, but not at home. They used to. Before Dennis left, they had movie nights, and Mac cooked dinner to ensure Dennis got something in his stomach. They would make out lazily on the couch, Dennis’ fingertips tracing over Mac’s muscles.

Stop. Stop. Don’t think about that. Dennis doesn’t want that.

Dennis doesn’t want Mac anymore.

So Mac looks. Spots the imperfections in muscle tone. Vows to tack on even more mass. Get more bigger. Get more stronger so he can beat people to a bloody pulp if he needs to. To defend Paddy’s pub as their sheriff and bodyguard. To prove to himself that he can do it without chimichangas or Dennis’ stupid size pills.

He needs something for himself because, without Dennis, he thinks he has nothing.

 

* * *

 

_2018_

Sometimes, it’s hard for Dennis to tell Mac how he feels.

Mac knows this. He’s good with it.

Their communication is scattered and shattered. Mac doesn’t like it.

But what he likes even less is that Dennis is actively avoiding him. He tries not to be in the same place at the same time as Mac, which must be really fucking hard considering they live together and work together, and Dennis fucking sucks at it anyway.

It’s a crisp, breezy October afternoon. There’s dog shit on the concrete, and Charlie, of course, takes the opportunity to step in it because, sure, maybe it is an okay lump of dog shit. But, then, there’s nothing to filter out the smell, and Mac gags in the bathroom before barreling into the alley with sweat pouring off his skin.

Mac puts his head in his hands, resting his elbows on trembling knees. It hasn’t been a good day. Mac isn’t sure how to piece everything together because something is clearly broken. He gets that he overstepped with Dennis, especially after his thing with Mrs. Klinsky when they were kids (that kinda shit is hard to move past), but he isn’t going to do it again. No unnecessary touches. No holding hands. No making passes. No flirting. No making out on the couch. No more blowjobs or secret kisses at work or sleeping in the same bed.

Dennis has always been weird, but this is a different brand of weird. He’s wearing a watch. He’s skinny, like super fucking skinny. He has panic attacks and then pretends they never happened, even if one occurs in front of Mac or Dee or Charlie or even Frank. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t scream or yell or freak out or rage anywhere near as much as he used to. Mac is used to Dennis being pissed off and shouting at everyone and everything. He’s starting to take his emotions out on brick walls.

Sometimes, Mac wishes he could make it all better.

Mac freezes when he hears the backdoor creak open and then slam shut. Dennis appears, hands in his hair as he paces, obviously trying to slow his breathing. His cheeks are red. Mac doesn’t have to see directly to know he’s about to cry.

Dennis notices Mac moments later and immediately sinks down against the brick wall, legs splayed out in front of him and arms limp at his sides. Mac almost chimes up, but then Dennis shoots him this look and whispers, “please don’t,” so Mac doesn’t.

“When’s the last time you drank anything?” Mac asks quietly. Dennis is pale like Casper the Ghost, and Mac can see that he’s trembling all over from here. Dennis is wearing jeans and a flannel with the sleeves rolled down, and it isn’t that cold out, which means the shaking’s from a mixture of anxiety and dehydration; Mac’s seen it before.

Dennis scrubs his hands over his cheeks. “I had two shots of tequila for breakfast,” Dennis murmurs.

“You should rehydrate.”

Mac tosses Dennis his bottle of water, half-empty and lukewarm. Dennis catches the bottle, and Mac gulps when he sees Dennis’ right hand, still bruised and swollen from his latest battle with a wall. Mac sat ACE bandage on the coffee table this morning, along with some Tylenol, but Dennis ignored them both, claiming he isn’t a kid and can take care of himself.

He fucked up again. He knows this.

“Gross,” Dennis says, spitting the water onto the already damp pavement and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s too warm.”

Mac huffs. “Just drink it, dude. Quit being so picky about everything.”

“Stop being so bossy.”

Mac hoists himself up, wiping his palms on his navy pants. “Come on,” he says, gesturing for Dennis to follow him.

Dennis eyes him suspiciously. “Where’re we going?”

“To the gas station,” Mac answers simply.

Dennis pushes himself off the ground. Stupid. So fucking stupid. Dennis gets in the passenger seat of his new – old as shit – Range Rover without saying a damn word. Mac almost throws up because Dennis just bought this thing, and he’s already given up driving. When Dennis got the Rover Mac blew up with a rocket launcher, he drove it everywhere and wouldn’t let anyone else borrow it for years. Years. When Mac finally got to get behind the wheel, they were over 30.

He watches Dennis fish the keys from his pocket, wincing when he bumps his injured hand. Mac takes them, starts the car, and instantly cracks the heat as high as it’ll go; Dennis’ teeth are chattering. He feels indifferent when Dennis breathes out and leans his head back against the seat, watching the world pass them both.

They say nothing on the ten minute drive.

Mac puts the new Rover in park and glances at Dennis, who is staring numbly out the window. He looks like he’s seeing nothing and everything all at once.

“Wanna come in?” Mac asks.

Dennis shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Whatever, dude.”

Mac doesn’t waste any time in the gas station, even though the relief is palpable, being away from Dennis and all. He grabs two blue Gatorades and two bags of low calorie and low sodium chips. He buys another ACE bandage too.

Dennis sips the Gatorade like it’s poison. Maybe it is; Mac doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what goes on in Gatorade Stores.

Mac tosses the chips into Dennis’ lap, but Dennis makes no effort to eat them, so Mac ignores it and moves on to unraveling the bandage.

“I’m not wearing that,” Dennis says.

Mac shrugs. “Too bad. Your hand’s swollen as shit, Den.”

“Don’t care.”

“I care,” Mac whispers. “Can I do it, or do you wanna do it yourself?”

Dennis scowls. “Just do it.”

Mac wraps Dennis’ wrist carefully and smartly because he does not want to screw anything else up. Dennis leans into the seat once he’s finished, eyes closed.

Sometimes, he wishes Dennis will just come out and tell Mac how he feels. That he’s scared or sick or empty or exhausted. That he can’t sleep because his nightmares are so bad. That he wants to up and abandon the gang for his son and a random woman in North Dakota. That he would leave Mac on such impulsiveness. That he would ignore phone calls and texts from everyone in the gang. That he would randomly appear again 18 months later and just pretend nothing changed when, really, everything did.

 

* * *

 

Mac’s lifting weights at the gym when he spies Carmen on the treadmill.

“I’m gay,” he announces proudly with his hands on his hips, showing off his ripped bod.

She smiles. It makes Mac feel good.

“When did that happen?” she asks, but Mac can tell she doesn’t mean anything rude by it.

He shrugs. “Almost two years ago. But, really, I guess I’ve known for years.”

“Yeah,” Carmen laughs. “Pretty sure I knew too. You got super upset when I got my bottom surgery and didn’t tell you.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Wouldn’t that mean I was straight? Because, y’know, you got your dick chopped off?”

“You banged me when I had a dick, Mac.”

He grins. He isn’t used to grinning anymore. “True story.”

“So what’ve you been up to? Got a boyfriend?”

“Nah. Been too busy working out for that.”

Carmen frowns. “That’s a shame. I know a guy I think you’d like.”

“Really?” Mac asks, pointing at himself.

“Yeah. His name’s Joel. I can give you his number if you want? Or try to set you two up?”

Mac stares down at his feet. His heart thumps pathetically in his chest. He doesn’t even know if he wants a relationship right now, much less someone to just talk to. He’s been doing okay on his own lately. He isn’t the party boy he used to be, but he hasn’t had the energy to do all that jizz anyway, not since that night at The Rainbow.

“Ohh,” Carmen says a little softer. “Broken heart, huh?”

“What?”

“You’ve got your puppy eye thing going on. Who broke your heart?”

Mac shakes his head. His pulse pounds in his ears.

He can’t.

He can’t do this.

“See ya, Carmen,” he says quickly, bolting the fuck out of the gym before anything else happens.

He races home. He wipes fallen tears with the back of his hand. He jogs up the stairs with his workout pump still glistening perfectly, but nothing is perfect, even when it used to be. Mac and Dennis were close before Dennis left. Now it’s overwhelming how different things are, and Mac fucking hates it, and he hates Dennis, and he wishes he had never came back.

“Fuck me,” is the first thing he hears when he opens the door.

He swears to God it isn’t even real at first.

But Dennis is lying down on the couch in plaid boxers and thick grey socks and one of Mac’s hoodies that swallows him entirely. He looks sick. Purple bruises under his eyes. Cheeks flushed. Lips chapped and red. Mac almost cries on the spot again because, Jesus Christ, this seriously cannot be happening.

“Fuck me, Mac,” Dennis whispers.

Mac can’t think. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

“No,” he says.

Dennis frowns. “Why not?”

“Christ, are you fucking serious right now?”

Dennis swings his legs over the side of the couch. He stands, wavering uneasily before sitting back down. “You know you want to,” he says, surprisingly strong and punctuated considering Mac thinks he just almost passed out, but he’s too focused on what Dennis fucking said to him, demanded of him, to care.

“I’m not gonna fuck you, Dennis.”

“But you want to though, right?”

He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He can’t hear. He can’t do this.

Dennis is... Dennis can’t just... He can’t.

“No, I don’t wanna fuck you, dude,” he spits out. “Go... Go take a nap or something. You look disgusting.”

Dennis messes with the scraggy strings of Mac’s hoodie. “I look disgusting?” he whispers, voice at least two octaves more higher than usual. “I look disgusting? I look disgusting?”

“You have a lotta nerve asking me to fuck you, Dennis,” Mac says, regardless of Dennis mutterings and mumblings. “Remember what you said a few weeks ago. ‘Time’s up, Mac.’ Now you’re wanting me to bone you? Right after you didn’t want me to touch you anymore whatsoever? How the fuck is that fair?”

“It isn’t fair,” Dennis says quietly, roughly, ghostly, like he isn’t even really here.

“What the hell is going on with you, man?” Mac asks.

Dennis chuckles and dissolves into the couch. He stares up at the ceiling. “Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Bullshit,” Mac spits out.

“Fine. Don’t believe me. I don’t care.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Did you stop taking your meds or some shit? Because you’re crazier than I ever remember you being, and that’s saying, like, a lot, dude.”

Dennis blinks. Dennis picks at a fraying end of Mac’s hoodie string. Dennis breathes. He shows all the signs of being alive, but Mac isn’t sure he is.

“This is fucking important, Dennis!” Mac exclaims once it becomes obvious Dennis isn’t going to talk. “Did you stop taking your meds?”

No response.

Anger races up Mac’s spine.

He clenches his jaw.

“You can’t just stop taking your meds! What the fuck were you thinking?”

“They made me miserable,” Dennis says, clearly and coherently, which is pretty surprising.

“Yeah? Well you make me miserable! So man the fuck up and take them!”

“No.”

Mac could so cry right now. He’s that frustrated and scared. “What do you mean ‘no?’”

“I’m not gonna take them anymore,” Dennis states.

“What? Do you have any idea how nuts you sound right now, bro? You have to take them. Your doctor gave them to you for a reason. You have to take them.”

“Repeating yourself isn’t gonna help,” Dennis tells him. “You’re not the boss of me anyway.”

Mac paces back and forth with his hands on his hips. Jesus Christ. Holy fuck. What is happening right now?

“What the fuck, dude? You sound like you’re five,” Mac spits out. “You know what? I can’t do this anymore.”

Dennis chuckles again, lower and quieter. “Yeah. Me either,” he whispers.

But Mac doesn’t hear it, not really at least. He’s too busy shoving his clothes into a duffle bag. He’s too busy washing out Dennis’ insanity with prayers. He’s too busy fleeing from this life because this life isn’t his anymore. He can’t do it. He can't. He really can’t. He’s tired of pretending. He pretended to be straight for almost 40 years. He can’t pretend to be anything else anymore. He can’t fucking deal with Dennis’ shit for another Goddamn second. That's it. He gives up.

He tried. He tried so hard to comfort Dennis, to build his life with Dennis instead of around him, but it’ll never be enough. Dennis is volatile and dangerous. Dennis is manipulative and cunning. Dennis doesn’t care about anyone other than himself. Mac feels a pang of sympathy or some shit because Dennis is sick and off his meds and isn’t eating, but none of that is his problem anymore. Mac has given Dennis everything he can.

“I’m gonna go crash somewhere til we can actually talk again,” Mac says. Dennis’ feet are on the coffee table, and the TV is on, a House rerun playing softly. It makes Mac’s blood boil, but he has to move past it. He doesn’t need this anymore. Doesn’t want it.

Dennis doesn’t say a word. Mac walks out the door.

He doesn’t bother wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks. Lets the floodgates open and sweep him under.

 

* * *

 

_1998_

The day after Dennis graduates from super smart college, Mac helps him move into his new apartment in Philly.

It’s fucking huge and extravagant and practically screams Dennis’ name. Mac is almost jealous, but he knows he’ll be over here a lot, so he moves past it. Dennis has this fancy imported leather couch and king-sized bed and wants to get a recliner. Dennis thinks recliners are for douchebags, but that’s the wrongest thing Mac’s ever heard in his life. He took Dennis to the Recliner Store yesterday, and they found a heated recliner. The two of them sat in it together until they were kicked out for ‘loitering.’ Dennis rolled his eyes, put his hand on the small of Mac’s back, and guided him away from that vile place that does not deserve Dennis’ lucrative business.

Mac does most of the heavy lifting, putting his construction muscles to the test proudly, while Dennis hooks up appliances in the AC. Dennis doesn’t do well in the heat; Mac knows this, which is why he’s moving everything else. Dennis helped with the bed and couch, but that’s it. He smiles each time Mac comes into the apartment like he belongs here, like it’s where he’s supposed to be, and Mac grins too, arms flexed and tanned in a sweat soaked t-shirt.

“I’m gonna die of heatstroke,” Mac whines as he drops a cardboard box on the cluttered floor.

Dennis rolls his eyes. “You’re fine, dude,” he says. “And quit getting your nasty sweat all over my shit.”

“My sweat is precious, Dennis. You should be grateful.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dennis points out.

Mac stares at him, a grin quickening in the corners of his lips. “Your mom doesn’t make any sense.”

Dennis chuckles and pats the deluxe air mattress blown up in the living room last night. “Come here.”

“Ew. No. I’m all gross and sweaty, dude. At least let me shower first.”

Dennis shakes his head. “You look great, Mac. Just come here.”

Mac does as he’s told, just like always. “Fine. But don’t complain when my sweat gets on you and your pussy ass skin.”

“’Pussy ass skin?’” Dennis repeats. “You’re on a roll today, man.”

“I try,” Mac says as he plops unceremoniously onto the mattress. He kicks his shoes and socks off, exhaling loudly and folding his arms behind his head. He watches the rise and fall of Dennis’ chest, mesmerized and fixated. “You should get, like, a dog or some shit, bro.”

“I’m not really a dog guy, and you know that.”

“I know, Den. But dogs are sweet. Remember Poppins? He’s the best.”

“Yeah. I do remember your trash dog with the socket popping eyeball and scabies,” Dennis says.

Mac rolls on to his side, curling up against Dennis and placing his greasy hands on Dennis’ chest; Dennis breathes in so sharply he almost passes out. “Poppins isn’t a ‘trash dog.’ He’s amazing!”

“But the eyeball?”

Mac laughs. “Yeah, the eyeball thing’s pretty gross, but I love him more better that way. It’s how God made him.”

Dennis kisses Mac’s knuckles. “I could get a cat,” he whispers.

“Cats are weird as shit, dude. They, like, don’t listen to anybody.”

“That’s part of what makes them badass,” Dennis reasons.

Mac remembers Dennis telling him about his cat as a kid. He found her wandering outside at the end of their driveway when he was 8. He named her Floof, and she was this orange tabby with the greenest eyes Dennis has ever seen. She used to follow him everywhere. She died when he was 13, right before the whole Ms. Klinsky thing. Mac knows it tore him apart. Ever since Floof, Dennis has wanted another cat, but his parents and school wouldn’t allow it.

Dennis loves cats; Mac guesses he understands them better than Mac does.

“I can help you get a cat,” Mac says, “if you really want one.”

“I’m not getting a trash cat, Mac.”

“No, dumbass. We can, like, go to a shelter or somethin’. Make it official. Save a life.”

“Yeah,” Dennis whispers. He smiles sweetly at Mac. Dennis cards his fingers through Mac’s sweat dampened hair, and Mac takes the opportunity to throw a possessive, heavy arm across Dennis’ waist, tugging him closer until they’re flushed skin to skin. Mac hides his face in Dennis’ blue t-shirt, tangling their bare feet together. “Do you wanna move in with me?”

Mac unhides his face and grins widely. His insides are melting. “Of course, Den. Of course.”

Obviously, Mac finishes moving into the new apartment the same day Dennis asks because he doesn’t have shit for belongings. He hangs his clothes in their closet, puts his toothbrush and hair product beside Dennis’, places his protein powder on the coffee table. Mac proudly surveys their new kingdom, a place where they can just hang out and be themselves.

That night, Mac makes spaghetti for dinner while Dennis kisses him, pressing him against their new kitchen counter.

**Author's Note:**

> "She's capsizing, and the sea keeps rising, and my kneecaps start to shake. If I can't save us, will the sea come take us when the whitecaps start to break?"
> 
> Song is Whitecaps by Watsky. Thank you for reading!


End file.
